Hands Like Ours
by fortes fortuna iuvat
Summary: Stranded in the snowcapped Grizzlies, the gang struggles to make ends meet. Imagine the indignation when Pearson catches some goddamn kid rifling through their provisions in the middle of the night. Arthur/OFC.
1. Prologue

_"Hold my hand in yours,_ _and we will not fear_

 _what hands like ours_ _can do."_ — The Epic of Gilgamesh

* * *

 **HANDS LIKE OURS**

Prologue

* * *

Sometime before dawn, she awoke. For a few moments, she thought she had gone deaf, or blind. Nothing in her feet, or hands, her own body foreign to her.

The moon is thin, and wavering through the clouds, the landscape of the snow and the mountains behind it unbetrayed. She could have been in the desert and it would have all looked the same. The wind and the snow had stopped, so for that time, all she could hear was the sound of her own breath.

She did not know how long it had been—how long it was going to be. She remembers finding cover from the wind in the dips of the peak, between rock, an almost-cavern, had told herself that she could rest for a moment before moving forward. Had told herself—for a moment, only for a moment.

She cannot see or hear the wolves, but she knows that they are there. These are the only things that make sense to her now. The give and take of it.

The wind picked up again, lifting the new-fallen snow around her like dust, sifting in the air. For as long as she could bear it, she remained like this—her body still and the snow moving beneath her—until she finds her arms and then her hands and then picks herself up, bluntly, the motion too familiar.

She steps out, again, like this, back out into the cold. She does not ask this question so much as it has come to define her, to give shape to her as a glass gives to water: How much longer. How much longer, alone.

She says her own name under her breath as she moves forward, with each step, like a heartbeat—the rattling sound of it—to remember the feeling of being known, of calling out and being called out for in return.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

* * *

The Van der Linde gang had seen better days. On the run from a botched job in Blackwater, with at least two—maybe four—dead, holed up in the middle of a snowstorm in the Grizzlies. And now this, here: A run-in with the O'Driscolls and John still God-knows-where.

It's evening, just after dinner—Arthur counts no more than 24 hours since they first made camp up here, _goddamn it_ —when Lenny bursts into the cabin where he and Dutch are staying, yelling about some kid Pearson found going through their supplies.

Dutch raises his eyebrows, looks over at Arthur.

"You think it's an O'Driscoll? A straggler from yesterday?"

Arthur shrugs.

"Guess we'll find out."

* * *

The kid is there, in the middle of the room, on the ground where Pearson had dropped him. From his size, Arthur thinks, he's probably thirteen, fourteen—and immediately, he almost sighs. Dutch's weakness. Taking in some lost kid and shaping him up. Wasn't no O'Driscoll, either—could tell even though his face was almost entirely covered, only his blue eyes visible, his entire body a bundle of coats and scarves. He had been out in the cold for a while, had no weapons to speak of. Micah made sure of that.

Dutch speaks softly, kneels down next to him. Arthur watches quietly.

"My name's Dutch," he says, then points behind him. "We're all together. Where are you from?"

He looks around the room silently, doesn't say anything. Dutch motions to take off the layers of hats, scarves wound tightly around his face.

After a pause, the kid does as he's told with almost-blue fingers—first the hat, then the rest.

Blonde hair in a torn-up braid tumbles out—the scarves reveal a wide, but distinctly feminine, jawline.

"Oh," Dutch says.

* * *

"How long have you been here?"

Dutch had offered her his hand, quickly, after that—had her sit by the fire to warm up as he continued to press her with questions.

She opens her mouth to speak, and nothing comes out—she had lost all track of time by now, for it no longer meant anything to her, but she understood that it had been a long time since she spoke to another living being. She clears her throat, tries again, her voice hoarse and slight, so much so that she does not recognize it.

"I found—I found the barn just—just last night. I slept there and then—then got up today to try and—to try to—"

"To steal from us?" Pearson jumps in, but Dutch puts a hand up, meaning: _"Hold it."_

"Don't worry about that," Dutch says, despite Pearson's protests. "You didn't have much else of a choice."

She nods silently. Arthur is thinking—Dutch and his damn bleeding heart. This girl rises up out of nowhere, out of the woods, and he lets her in _like that._

"What's your name, kid?" Dutch asks, carefully.

"Willa," she says. And, in a tone more defensive than hostile: "I'm not a kid."

"How old _are_ you, then?"

She breathes out. "Twenty-five."

The way Dutch smiles at her makes her think he doesn't believe her.

"Well, Willa—I understand you likely don't want to be back out in that weather again," Dutch looks into her eyes. Arthur tries to see what he's thinking. "You're more than welcome to stay with us, here. We can figure everything else out in the morning."

"Thank you," she says. "I'll be out of here when the storm dies down."

Dutch raises his hand again.

"Don't worry about any of that," he says, then beckons a woman over. "Mrs. Grimshaw, will you set up a place for Willa here to sleep?"

Willa looks around. Notes the smell of woodsmoke, of pine, of damp wood and beeswax, the bareness of the cabin lifted by scenes of its inhabitants—the child poring over a book, the women by the fire. She feels the image settle uncomfortably somewhere in her stomach and quickly makes a decision, turns back around to Dutch.

"I don't mind staying with the horses," she says.

He frowns slightly, looks over to Arthur, thinks maybe it's some kind of strange politeness.

"It's alright," Dutch says, "there's room here. You don't have to do that."

And she forces herself to smile at him, because she begins to recognize what kind of gang this really was.

"Thank you, sir, but—" she sees him open his mouth to correct her, to convince her, "but. I prefer to stay out there, really. I can help take care of them, too—the horses. I don't mean to appear ungrateful—I really do thank you. I just—"

She looks around at the homey cabin, the single door the only means of immediate escape, the tightness of the quarters—that once would have made her chest warm but now, suddenly, was unimaginably oppressive.

"I don't think I can right now."

Dutch looks at her. Arthur, silently watching from the doorway, understands—somehow and immediately.

Before Dutch can respond, Micah grabs him by the arm, and in a loud whisper—"Do you really think this a good idea? We got too many folks as it is, and we just picked up that—"

Before this moment, Arthur had no prior inclination towards the girl, as to whether she stays or goes. Had too much to think about already, after Blackwater, the O'Driscolls, and now this godforsaken mountain. In that moment, though—in the snarl of Micah's objection—the decision is made for him.

"I'll take her back, Dutch. It's OK."

Dutch opens his mouth to say something, but looks at her and drops it.

"Well, alright."

As she makes her way to the door, Dutch looks at Arthur with some kind of suspicion now, like she knows more than she's sayin' and could not possibly be up to any good, like he's saying _make sure she doesn't make off with the horses,_ but Arthur looks back with assuredness, a quiet nod, and follows Willa back out into the cold.

* * *

"You sure you're alright here?" Once inside, Arthur stays by the door—wary, still—watches as she moves through the barn.

"Yes," she says. "Thank you, Mr.—"

"Arthur," he says.

She nods.

Her voice is almost too deep for a girl of her size—her accent flat, the syllables stilted by what Arthur assumes to be a _proper_ school education. He assumes—she must not be from around here—but then immediately thinks: How did she end up here, in the snow and in the mountains, alone and yet alive?

"You on the run from somethin'?" Arthur asks, looking at her as she finds her spot in the hay.

"No," she says, then thinks for a moment. "To something."

Her vagueness is not deliberate, nor out of coldness, nor for the purpose of guarding sensitive information—but out of habit, out of the fact of having been alone, on her own, for so long. Not knowing anymore what could make sense to other people. What she could sift from her mind, from the mess of it, what could make someone understand the order in which you abandon your life.

She pauses again, looks at him.

"You all are, though—right? On the run?"

"Well—yes, I 'spose we are," he says. "Well, the government—as they say—ain't our biggest fans at the moment."

He gives a mirthless smile, side of his mouth, adjusts his hat a little.

"Some might even say, well—that we're _bad people_."

Her eyes light up a little as she replies—"As they say."

He smiles again.

"As they say."

"You have children with you," she says. "Single women—young and old. That's how I know you can't be all that bad. Doesn't quite matter to me where you get the money for big fancy coats like yours."

"Well, thank you very much, miss." Somehow, Arthur lets the humor drip into his voice, lets himself watch as her eyes go light again.

He clears his throat.

"I 'spose Dutch would want me to say—well, you're welcome here, and all, but this ain't no charity." He pauses. "And I reckon you ain't in a hurry to get back out into this weather, anyhow, but in case it weren't clear—you take any of our things, our horses, and make off with 'em—we will find out, and then we'll find _you_."

"Oh, I know," she says, her voice light, as though they were talking about plans for supper. "Though I don't care too much about being found. To tell you the truth."

He looks at her—steeled and alone—and he believes it.

They stand in silence for a while. Arthur opens his mouth, to ask her how she ended up here, but decides against it. She catches this.

"I'm looking for someone," she says, glancing down at her hands. "I tracked them—or, at least I tried. I have reason to believe they've passed through here. Is all."

Arthur nods. "I see."

She nods back.

"Thank you, by the way," she starts. "For—well, for interrupting that man back there. For letting me stay here."

Arthur looks uncomfortable, furrows his brows, looks down at his hands. He wants to add that he wasn't too keen on what Micah thinks about anything anyhow, but he remembers that she is a stranger and they are standing in a barn and he holds back.

"People listen to you," she continues. "You must be important around here."

"I don't know about that," he says. "I just give people a fair chance, is all." He adds, under his breath: "Most of the time."

"You're a good man, then." Her clear eyes cut through him.

"No," he says, immediately—his discomfort with the word. "I don't know. I don't care. I just do what I think is right—which usually is just what Dutch tells me to do. Really, I just—I just do what needs to get done."

"That must be nice," she says, nodding, looking up at him. Arthur can see, even from where he stands by the door, the clearness of her eyes and the dark bags underneath them, the sallowness in her skin, the red blotches of where her face is burned and marked from the ice and the sun. Her voice is quieter, now. "I think—I think I might be tired of making decisions. I wish someone would tell me what to do."

Arthur pauses. Then: "Go to sleep."

A smile.

"OK."

He stares at her hands as she rubs them together for warmth—small and almost purple from the cold, the blue in her fingernails. She sticks them under the folds of her coat, and then, with a frown—still cold—under her neck.

Arthur doesn't know what to do, in this moment. What would he usually do? For whatever reason, he is at a loss right now, his mind blanking. He imagines it, the possibility of it. What he knows he _should_ do in a moment like this. Walk over to her, take her hands in his, warm them. Take off his heavy coat and give it to her, who is small and shivering in the stable with a wet jacket and no fire.

Arthur imagines it, and then quickly puts it away.

"Well," he says, clearing his throat, tilting his hat back down. "We'll see you tomorrow, I 'spose."

He doesn't wait for a response, just opens the heavy door and steps out, and secures it shut again. He walks out into the snow, puts his hands into his pockets, shuts his eyes, tries to get that image of her, in the stable, alone—wild eyes and stoic face and cold hands—out of his mind.

* * *

Hello, hello! _Yes_ , Willa is the same name as my other OC in a Western-inspired fic and _yes_ I have very little creativity but we all have flaws, so!

Anyways, I've had this fic in my head for a while now and thought I would just finally write it. I played RDR1 way back, and it wrecked my life back then, and never thought RDR2 could even come close. BOY, was I wrong.

Expect more chapters soon ~


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

* * *

Arthur steps outside with his already-cold tin cup of coffee and feels the cold air already stinging his face. The snow had died down, finally—he takes a deep breath, takes in the stillness and the silence, the smell of woodsmoke against the clean brisk of the air. This was, lately, a too-rare moment, between the mess of Blackwater and the close-call of the escape into the Grizzlies. So Arthur takes another breath before finding Dutch and Hosea around a dying fire a few yards away.

He makes his way over to them—skips the morning pleasantries. "So, any plans to speak of? How long are we gonna be hidin' out here?"

"Slow down, Arthur," Dutch says. "Mornin' to you to."

Arthur breathes through his nose impatiently. "Mornin'. So—you two decided anything yet?" He looks over at Hosea.

"Good morning, Arthur," Hosea says, smiling tightly. Arthur nods back. "I hear we picked up a guest last night in the middle of all this commotion."

 _Jesus Christ_ , Arthur thinks.

"Willa," Dutch jumps in. "Says her name is Willa. Don't know where she came from, but she didn't have anything on her—don't know how she made it here, in that weather."

"Yeah, Dutch," Arthur starts. "I was meaning to talking to about th—"

"Arthur, maybe you should go check on her," Dutch nods towards the barn, then turns to Hosea. "Strange girl. Insisted on sleepin' in the cold."

Arthur sighs.

" _Sure_ ," he says, shoving his coffee into Dutch's hands. "Why not."

* * *

"Well," Arthur says, stepping inside the cabin where Dutch sat by the fire, Micah standing a few feet away. He shakes the snow off his coat. "She ain't there."

"What?" Dutch stands up.

"She ain't in the barn. I saw some footprints leading out—ain't nothin' left in the barn but the hay and some books in some language."

"What?" Dutch repeats, shaking his head. "Did she take anything?"

"A horse," Arthur says. "And a bow and some arrows, I think, from Pearson's table."

"You said she left somethin'? Maybe she'll be back," Dutch says.

" _Books,_ Dutch. She left books. In some funny language."

Micah looks smug in the corner, jumps in the conversation.

"Well, I don't mind goin' and lookin' for her, draggin' her back here," he says. "Horse or not, she couldn't have made it too far from here."

Arthur rubs his forehead with his hand, lets out a breath.

"No," he says. "No, I'll look. But if she's not anywhere close, there's no use goin' after her. We got too much else to worry about."

Arthur shakes his head as he steps out again.

And wouldn't you know.

He sees her, about fifty feet away—trotting in on Lenny's horse like she owns the damn place.

 _Goddamn it._

* * *

By the time he reaches her, she's already off the horse, making her way to the barn. He catches up to her, and grabs her.

"Where did you go?" He motions up to the horse. "And what made you think you could just make off with one-a _our_ horses?"

She looks at him blankly.

"I'm sorry," Willa starts, "I just took it for a bit," she holds up a dead marmot. "To find something to eat."

Arthur stares at her. She pulls her arm out of his grasp, moves past him, into the overhang attached to the barn—watches her as she carefully places the marmot on a table in Pearson's makeshift kitchen, pulls out a knife from her pocket. Arthur thinks: _Managed to steal that already, too._

"I didn't want to keep—to keep relying on you all. After last night, I mean." She pauses, the knife hovering over the fur around its neck.

Arthur sighs, his voice softening for a moment. "You know how to skin that?"

She glances up at him. "Yes," Willa says, quietly. She looks down at the small animal on the table, one hand covering its eyes. She was thinking too much on it—how much of a chance encounter it had been. How the only reason it had come out so early before the thaw anyhow was because it hadn't found enough to eat before, in the summer, and how that was because maybe its mama didn't teach it to look for the right plants in the right way, or maybe it was too small and too slow from the get-go, couldn't get to the food before the others took it all—thinking too much on how quickly things get away from you, how maybe they're never yours to begin with.

"Here," Arthur says, walking over and removing her hand. "Let me do it."

She stills for a second, and then lets go, moves away—starts to leave from the overhang, but Arthur stops her.

"Hold on," he says. "I ain't done with you yet." He starts slicing through the skin. "Dutch had me lookin' for you."

Willa stops. He hears her sigh, then leans against the wall, her back to him.

Arthur looks at her for a moment, at this girl who came outta nowhere, before he turns back to the animal—notices the single kill shot through the marmot's eye, how she must have carried that thing in her hands the whole way back as it lay there, eyes blank and bleeding out.

* * *

"I found her," Arthur says, pushing her forward slightly as he lets go of her, the bow still in his other hand. "She was—off _huntin'."_

Dutch stands up from his chair, eyebrows raised.

"Now," Arthur says from behind her. " _You're_ gonna talk."

She glares back at him, quickly—blink and you'd miss it.

"I'm sorry, sir, for taking the—"

"No," Arthur says. "Not that—tell us what the hell are you doin' here."

She glances up at Dutch, her cheeks pink from the cold or the attention or both.

"I'm—well—are you familiar with any gangs up Northwest?" she says, quietly.

"Sure," Dutch says. "I know a few."

"OK, well—well, I'm looking for—well, for these brothers." She's got her hands clasped together, fidgeting with them. Her voice shakes—almost. "Two of them. By the name of Skinner. They have a small posse, I think, from what I could gather—not a large following, no. They're from up north, I think, almost by the border even, but that thing's been moving up and down so much who can tell anymore."

Dutch glances over at Arthur, standing silently behind her.

She continues: "Anyhow. I'm looking for them. Is all."

"Well," Dutch says, brows furrowed, mulling it over. "No, I don't reckon I've heard of any Skinners. But we haven't been that far up north in a while."

"Yeah," she says, breathes out. "That sounds about right." _Just her luck._

Dutch opens his mouth to ask her something—she thinks, probably to ask her _why_ —but she doesn't know how to explain anything anymore, at least not yet, so she jumps in.

"I was thinking–" she starts, "that I might stay with you all, just for a while. I won't take anything, anymore—it's just—see, I don't—well I don't have a horse or money or—or _anything_ really anymore and I've been thinking on it all morning and if it's alright with you all that I might—well, that I might stay. With you all. For a while. Is all."

Arthur notes her supreme discomfort at this—at asking for help, acknowledging that she needs it.

She starts again. "I can even–I can even help hunt! I'm an alright shot and—"

Dutch holds up his hand.

"Miss, it's fine," he says. Arthur's not surprised, but still looks on in disbelief at how quickly Dutch dismissed her story, let her stay with them till God-knows-when doing God-knows-what. "You're more than welcome with us. We're not much," Dutch laughs lightly, "but you're welcome here."

She nods, gratitude soft on her usually stoic face.

Dutch looks at Arthur again.

"Weren't you and Charles about to go lookin' for some food, anyhow?"

Arthur, reluctantly: "Yes, but—"

"Well, there you go. Another capable hand," Dutch motions to Willa. "Take her with you."

Arthur sighs.

"Alright," he says. "Let's go." Arthur is about to take her by the arm again, but she dodges him, steps forward in front instead, shoots a quick look back at him and walks through the door.

He sighs, again.

* * *

Arthur watches her make a path through the snow, trailing behind her small footprints. He picks up his pace.

 _What the hell is she doin'?_

"You mind explainin' to me why you're leadin' the way if you don't know where you're goin'?"

She stops, immediately, turns sideways to look at him. Arthur catches up with her, throws a quick glare as he passes her, shoves the bow back in her hands, stands a few paces in front of her.

" _This_ way," he says, motioning behind the barn. "We're meeting Charles by the horses."

Arthur looks at her, in her torn-up coat, layers and layers of thin clothing peeking through, a damp scarf wrapped around her neck.

 _Jesus,_ he thinks. How did he end up here—on a frozen mountain, on the run from the law, babysittin' some kid who rose up outta nowhere. He shakes his head. Willa furrows her brows at him.

"Wait here," Arthur tells her, and goes back into the cabin, emerges with a shearling coat.

"Here," he says, roughly, shoving it into her arms. "Before you freeze to death." _Don't know how she hasn't already,_ he thinks. "It ain't gonna fit you right but it's better than what you got on."

She holds it up, gingerly. He can tell—from earlier, how much she hated asking to stay—that she's considering throwing it in the snow and telling him she doesn't need any favors, but he sees the pink in her face, how she moves quickly and with frigidity. This kind of cold will have you taking anything you can get.

"And take that goddamn wet scarf off," Arthur motions to her neck, then looks away, out into the trees. "Unless you wanna get sick or somethin'."

Willa does as she's told, remove the top layers of her coats—Arthur catches a look at her from the corner of his eye.

 _Who was this girl?_ Dutch seemed alright with leaving things where they were, with her bare-bones story about chasin' after some brothers, but Arthur couldn't. Last night, he thought she was just some girl out on her luck, maybe runnin' away, but then this—waking up before everyone else, taking a horse and a bow, finding a _marmot_ in the middle of this weather. How she even made it here in the first place. He's thinkin' now it's much more likely someone _else_ was runnin' from her.

And Arthur doesn't like that one bit.

* * *

Charles had already been waiting for them when they walked up—had introduced himself quickly to Willa. _No questions._ She decides, then and there, that she likes him.

"I think it'd be best if we split up." He motioned towards them. "It's too damn quiet here, and we'll make too much noise. Cover more ground, this way, too."

Arthur nods—"Sure"—and watches as Charles gets back on his horse and moves, northwest and onto higher ground.

Willa looks at Arthur for a moment, and then starts to move away, too, but Arthur grabs her, quickly.

"No," Arthur says, gruffly, pulls her back to him. "You're comin' with me."

She frowns, starts to protest. "I'm more than capable of going on my o—"

"Oh, I know," he says. "I aim to find out _exactly_ what you're capable of."

Willa's confusion deepens on her face, and she tries to wrestle out of his grasp.

"I ain't Dutch," he continues, tightening his grip, his voice low. "And while your ol' big-eyed silent act might-a worked for him," he pulls her closer, "you're gonna answer some-a _my_ questions now."

* * *

They rode in silence until they reached a stretch of land by the lake. Arthur stops the horse, doesn't say anything—lets her get off first, on her own.

He slides off, gets his own gun from the horse's satchel, starts walking forward.

"Come on," he says roughly.

After a few paces, she talks.

"Did I do something wrong?" she says, her voice small, and for a moment, Arthur feels almost-bad for talking to her the way he had. Who knows how long she's been like this, on her own. But he remembers the state they were all in and how they couldn't spare any risks, even ones that were barely over five feet tall—not now. He stops and turns towards her.

"I don't like you wastin' my time with all this, that's what." he says. "I got bigger things to worry about than thinkin' about whether you're up to no good or not."

She stops walking. "Oh," she says. "Like I said, I—"

"I know, I know—you're trackin' someone, not runnin' _from_ somethin' but _to_ somethin' and all that—you only talk in riddles or somethin'?" He shakes his head and looks at her. The large collar of her coat and its fur lining pushed her cheeks up slightly, mouth hardly visible and voice muffled, her loose hair just a tuft peeking through—making her look even more like a child. Arthur sighs. "Just tell me where you're from."

"Oregon," she says. She brushes a few snowflakes off her head. "Or—Washington, now, maybe. Who knows what they're calling anything up there anymore."

"That far, huh?" Arthur furrows his brow. "And runnin' around snowy mountains with no gun or supplies or anything else worth speakin' of—that an Oregon thing? Pilferin' through people's things?" He stares at her, sizes her up again. "You even know how to survive on your own? Or did you just coast here on sheer luck?"

She looks away.

"No, I—I do," she pauses suddenly, the change in her tone abrupt. "I can't believe—you think I'm an idiot? You're the only one who knows how to do anything? Fuck you." She glares at him. " _I_ made it here. On my own." Her small hand makes a fist at her side, involuntarily.

He's taken aback for a moment—the harshness of that word in that flat schoolteacher voice of hers, when she's standin' there in that coat lookin' like a damn bear cub.

Willa sees him open his mouth and she cuts him off.

"I _had_ a gun," she continues, "but—well, the way I got here was—I hopped train to train make it here from out northwest—I don't have any money, haven't for a while—and got caught a few times. One time I got caught—I don't know how long ago, really, anymore—and they tried to make me pay with the money I did not have, or throw me off, and so—I guess they just settled for taking everything worth anything off my back instead."

"And you let them?"

"And what was I supposed to do? Take on the whole damn train with my rusted old revolver?" She shakes her head. "None of it mattered, anymore, anyway. I couldn't even think, then—or now." She looks down. "All I knew was that I had to keep moving."

He wants to ask what the hell happened to her, ask her why she's after those brothers, why she can't sleep with everyone else back in the cabin. But he remembers how she looked at that dead marmot today, one trembling hand over its face—how she looked that first night in the barn, almost grey from the cold and exhaustion—and he knows he can't, and shouldn't. Not yet. Not here.

She continues: "The last time—that's how I got here, stuck in the mountains. I know I said that—well, I said that I _tracked_ them through here, but. Well, that's not true. Since you're starting to seem like the type that values honesty." Arthur bites the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling at her sarcasm. "I knew this train was going east, through the mountains, and that's where I needed to go—they found me once they had already gone up into the peaks, and threw me off."

"Threw you off into the snow? In the middle-a this?"

"Yeah, well—I don't know if you know this, Arthur, but—Americans, especially out here, aren't exactly known for their kindness."

She scratches her cheek. Continues, a small smirk on her face: "Well, except for you all, of course. You, especially."

The corner of Arthur's mouth twitches into an almost-smile. "So you're stayin', then?"

"Don't have much elsewhere to go. Unless you know of some other gang of misfits taking in new recruits off the street around here." She motions to the snow-capped forest.

"Alright, then," Arthur says. "Let's go."

Willa watches him as he moves forward, into the snow, wondering how she got here—no longer just her own thoughts rattling inside her, her own voice made imagined in the solitude. There she was—always in the wrong place in the wrong time, and then this: Stumbling upon Dutch and his gang, upon _him_. Nothing had made sense to her in a long while, but she feels it even more so, right now in the middle of all this—before, she had some kind of clear logic to things, always one foot in front of the other, always _forward_ —and now—

"Alright," she says.

And she follows him.

* * *

This is longer than most of the chapters are going to be — I'm envisioning smaller vignettes!


End file.
